


for men weren't made to fly

by redsquadronblues (clockworkcorvids)



Series: wedgeluke shenanigans [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: (or its aftermath), An addendum, Battle of Endor, Fluff, Force-Sensitive Wedge Antilles, How Do I Tag, I apologize in advance, M/M, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Red Squadron, Self-Indulgent, Self-Reflection, Song: Fighter Pilot (Sanders Bohlke), as per usual, i dont explicitly mess with canon timelines but it's implied, if you know more about legends than i do, luke is sulking, no beta we die like men, wedge is soft and awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/redsquadronblues
Summary: After the Battle of Endor, there's a long way to go, but the only survivors of Red Squadron both have plans and hopes and the like. Perhaps their paths can intersect again in the future, or perhaps those paths never need to diverge at all.Or: two fighter pilots sit in a tree and talk about the future.
Relationships: Wedge Antilles & Luke Skywalker, Wedge Antilles/Luke Skywalker
Series: wedgeluke shenanigans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585483
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64





	for men weren't made to fly

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Star Wars fic I've written in what must be three years or something ridiculous like that. The old ones have never seen the light of day, and they probably never will, but this feels like coming full circle. I'm rusty on my lore, but this idea came to me half awake this morning before the sun had risen, and it just wouldn't let me rest until it was written.  
As always, every kudos is appreciated, and I especially love comments. Enjoy! 
> 
> Title is from Fighter Pilot by Sanders Bohlke

Of all the places for the war to end, nobody had expected it to be Endor. 

Coruscant, maybe, or Tatooine, or perhaps even off somewhere in the not-quite-void of space, amidst asteroids and space junk and space slugs, but not in the orbit of some small moon in the Outer Rim.

Nonetheless, the war is over, and there will be cleaning up to do. The Rebellion will have a long path to walk even after Vader’s― _ Anakin’s _ ―body on the pyre has been reduced to ashes and the warped remnants of his mask, even after the last shards of debris from the Death Star float away and the fireworks both for entertainment and from the battle fade into the pitch-blue sky. 

For now, though, the survivors are thinking about nothing more than finding the faces of their friends and family and allies amongst the stragglers still landing, still radioing in hours after the last Imps fled. The remainder of the Rebel Alliance is focusing, for the time being, on mourning the lost and celebrating that which they have managed, against all odds, to hold on to. Han and Leia, ever the lovebirds, disappear into some higher part of the trees to watch the sky by themselves, no doubt to talk and a little bit more, and Luke is happy for them. He’s happy that they can finally be happy, and maybe they will still have hard times ahead of their relationship, but the worst part is past. The droids are alright, as is Chewbacca, and Lando quickly melts into the crowd alongside R2-D2, excited to participate in the revelry.

And there are the aether-blue faces in the fire, apparitions that Luke does not want to put a name to for fear that they will disappear, but his father and Ben and Yoda are smiling at him and then he blinks and they’re gone, so he calls them by name: Force ghosts. 

_ Thank you _ , he thinks,  _ I love you _ , and for once in his life he finds that such weighty words come out smooth and easy, as if they are second nature. He supposes they are, at least for these ghosts of his. 

Luke slips away into the trees, higher up, to a large and comfortable branch (well, as much so as any of these branches can be) obscured by shadows, lit only by the sky. With the soundtrack of the celebration in the distance, muffled by leaves, he looks up at the universe, observing the way it fades from black to blue to a dappled field of stars and faraway parts of the galaxy. He is suddenly overcome with a sensation of awe, something profound pressing down on his ribcage and catching his lungs, as he realizes that he will soon be able to go anywhere. Back to Tatooine, perhaps, but he has nothing left for him there save for sand and memories. He never picked up those power converters at Tosche Station, but his world is so much bigger than power converters now, so much more now. He reaches inside himself, pokes and prods around the interior of his heart, and finds that he doesn’t have a plan for the future. For years, the end of the Empire has been the only thing at the end of the tunnel, alongside closure with his father, and both of these things have happened all at once now. But maybe he can explore again, see the galaxy without the pretext of war, without always having to look over his shoulder. 

Somewhere in the distance, an X-Wing takes off, or maybe it’s just an echo in the Force, but Luke hears the telltale whirr of the engine nonetheless, and it stops him in his tracks. He remembers Yavin, Hoth, and Endor, the last and most recent addition to a seemingly endless list of battles. Some of the casualties, he will not remember, and he only hopes someone will, but he remembers all the pilots who died. That particular feeling of a survivor’s guilt comes over him, knowing how lucky he is to be alive right now, but such is the way of war. He can only move on, he tells himself, move on and work for things to be better.

He’s wearing his Jedi garb, still, but the lack of any Rebel insignia does not detract from the very real memory, the bleeding, salted open wound that is the fact that Luke will always be a member of Red Squadron; the only remaining member save for Wedge.

He thinks. He isn’t sure. He hasn’t given it much thought, hasn’t had the time what with the war and his family and Jedi training and the insurmountable chaos of  _ everything _ , but he knows he would have felt it in the Force had Wedge died. Why he would have, well...that’s a question for another time. 

Or, it is until he feels a familiar presence approach, and...he’s known since Cloud City, back on Bespin, but every time he becomes aware of it, he’s always taken by surprise by just how precise his Force premonitions can be, or intuition at the very least. It’s mostly the intuition, not specific images so much as a gut feeling, a vague sense of something.

“You up here sulking?” Wedge asks as he clambers onto the branch beside Luke, and the Jedi finds himself smiling, head bowed.

“That is precisely what I’m doing,” Luke remarks; “how did you find me?”

“Oh, well, when you were in surgery getting that bionic hand, the medical droids put a tracking chip in it―” Wedge breaks off as they both laugh, knowing he jests despite the serious expression on his face. 

“Nah, I didn’t see you with Leia, so I assumed you’d gone off somewhere to meditate. I poked around a bit, I guess it was just chance that I found you so quickly.” And then, more quietly, “Or the Force.”

Luke’s shoulders rise and fall, just slightly, with a closed-mouth laugh. He’s still smiling; he tends to have some sort of compulsion to do that when Wedge is around, and he swears, the man just always knows the right things to say to him, and it doesn’t help Luke’s occasional attempts to act stoic that Wedge will so quickly go from smirking and cracking jokes like Han to being soft and thoughtful and, dare he say, tender. 

Come to think of it, Luke really has been projecting his thoughts these last few minutes, and it’s not like Wedge is Force-sensitive enough to be a Jedi, but he’s one of those blessed few who have some sort of connection to the Force, generational or otherwise, that lets them subconsciously pick up on things. It’s not like it’s a problem, anyhow; Luke would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see Wedge’s face right now. 

“How are you doing? It’s been a rough night,” Wedge says softly from where he now sits beside Luke, hunched over in the wide space that the branch’s massive diameter provides. He’s still wearing his flight suit, top half tied around his waist, and a simple black shirt bearing the Rebel Alliance logo. Seeing the insignia of the Red Squadron where it lies crumpled and half-hidden in the folds of Wedge’s flight suit, there is a pang in Luke’s chest. He seems to be realizing at the same time as Luke that the Jedi is unusually quiet tonight.

“Been better, I suppose. There’s just...a lot to reflect on.”

Wedge lets out a breath. “Sure is. I can’t believe it’s over.”

“Yeah. It just felt like it was going to go on forever, with no end, and now I don’t know what to do anymore. We’re the only ones left from Red Squadron, if there are any other Jedi out there I sure as hell don’t know who they are or how to find them, and…”

Luke knows there is no pretext for what he is about to say, save for his own tumultuous thoughts, but he feels that Wedge should know this. It’s only fair, and he feels that this knowledge is no longer a burden. Wedge would understand if he kept it secret, as he had in the past when nobody, not even his own sister, knew, but. Well. Luke feels. He can’t precisely articulate what he is feeling, but there’s a good deal of it. 

“...Vader was my father, he turned back to the light side just before he died” he says, in a single breath. It’s rushed enough that he almost stumbles over the words in an uncharacteristic way, worrying that he might have to repeat it to Wedge as the other man looks sidelong at him and tilts his head in a look of something between confusion and simple misunderstanding.

“Oh,” is all Wedge says. For a moment, there is a slight furrow between his dark brows, and then it disappears. A lock of black hair falls over his forehead, and he pushes it back. His other hand is white-knuckled on the branch, in between his and Luke’s knees.

Then: “I don’t know what to say, but if it helps. It won’t change anything.” Now the words are spilling out. “And, I’m sorry. I sort of figured there was something more when I saw the pyre, but I wasn’t going to ask. Didn’t think it was my business, my place to pry into things.”

Wedge buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I’m absolute kriff at this whole  _ deep conversation  _ thing. But seriously, if you thought I was going to call you a traitor or something, no, no. I would never. Hell, you know I used to be in the Academy. You were planning on it, too. I don’t know what went down on the Death Star, but I trust you.”

And they stop. The whole world, in a way, stops around them. Luke remembers saying, just a few minutes ago,  _ I love you _ . He’s said it before. He said it then. He’s sure he could say it again. It’s always chalked up to be some sort of end-all-catch-all, some huge thing that is bigger than the sum of all its parts, but he’s always found that he values trust more. Before he loved Leia and Han like the sister and best friend they are to him, he trusted them. Before he came to love Ben like a father, he trusted the old man. Before...well, that’s a new thought, and like the Force ghosts, it’s one he doesn’t want to put a name to for fear it will disappear, but he realizes as the thought lingers in his brain for longer and longer that  _ no _ , this has been with him for years now. 

For once, Luke finds himself at a loss of the usual cool and collected Jedi demeanor he has taken on over the last year or so; at a loss for words. 

“Thanks. That means a lot,” is all he manages to say, and he hopes that the emotion he wants to convey comes through, but he can only hope. 

Then again, hope is what got the Rebel Alliance through decades of war, loss, pain, death, fear.

“Do you know where you’re going to go now? What you’re going to do?”

“All I’ve known for so long is war and the Red Squadron. And now there’s no war, no Red Squadron left, just the ashes.” Wedge says, fiddling with a loose thread on the patch on his flight suit, right over his heart. “Well, there’s us. But unless you’re going to follow me, and I don’t know why in all the nine hells you’d―”

He’s cut off by the deafening screech of a firework in the distance, and the rainbow of light hits his face, every little hair and freckle and stress line. 

“Actually,” Luke says, seizing on opportunity before the less gutsy side of him can take over, “I’ve been thinking that I want to explore. Take my X-Wing and just see the galaxy, be free for a few years. I’m not saying I’ll abandon the Rebellion, but even with all the cleanup after the war, I want to find something I can do that lets me travel.”

For all his gutsiness, he can’t find the courage to say it, but his invitation remains implied, hanging there in the space between them.

Wedge looks up, arms resting on his knees, the curve of his spine and shoulders pronounced in the stark but distant light. He reaches out, soundlessly, and takes Luke’s hand in his own. Rubs a calloused thumb over cracked knuckles, gentle and absentminded and somehow all too telling yet completely devoid of any clear meaning at once.

“We could go,” he says. “Together.” 

Fireworks continue to crackle and blaze through the sky, and the sound of a symphonic voice, of someone playing a stringed instrument and someone else joining in on a drum and now, what must be dozens of Rebels singing, comes from somewhere below, floating over the trees. The stars are bright, burning, whispering of promise and awe and so many wonders, things yet unseen. They blaze with possibility, and this feeling seeps into Luke’s bones and settles there, down in his sternum, as he looks Wedge in the eyes. 

“Really?” he breathes, and Wedge smiles at him, something between a tender gaze and a knowing smirk. 

“If you’d let me follow, I would. We’ve gotta keep Red Squadron together somehow,” he says, and his chapped lips are curled up at one corner at the reminiscence, but it means more than that. 

“Then it’s a yes from me,” Luke says, drawing back a little despite himself, if only to get a better look at all of Wedge, sharp shoulders to dark hair to dangling legs.

Wedge punches the air, then, grinning in triumph, and for a fleeting fraction of a second Luke is a child again, hot dry air around him and sand under his feet as he cheers on his friends racing in their hoverbikes and then, later, races a hoverbike himself. He is jubilant, light, as if he is floating with the debris of the Death Star up in Endor’s orbit, up with the stars, and he and Wedge laugh in unison.

They come down from the high of childlike enthusiasm after a moment, Wedge pushing back his ever-messy hair yet again, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles wider than before at Luke. Luke wonders if that smile will ever stop growing, if not in proportion than in the emotion carried behind it.

“Kriff,” Wedge says, breathy and interlaced with laughter, “I love you, Luke.” 

And he stops. His hand, still in Luke’s, goes still. Luke feels, for a moment, as if he is making a quick decision, but he realizes it is only quick because he already knows what he is going to do, already knows what his choice is and will always be, because it has been the same for so long.

“I know,” he says, and the three words that won’t slip out so easily quite yet, but he knows they will someday―and there’s no rush, there really isn’t―those three words remain silent.

Luke leans forward and breaks the tension as he kisses Wedge, soft and light and quick, and Wedge severs any hesitation that might have remained between them with a hand on the back of Luke’s neck, pulling him in closer, making the kiss last longer. 

A moment later, a moment too soon, they both pull back, foreheads still touching, and they’re laughing again.

To say that Luke hadn’t expected to fall in love on Endor would be wrong, because the manner in which he fell in love was beyond a place or a time. But this, whatever it is, this curious, awkward thing that is simultaneously brand new and more familiar than sand and two suns...no Force intuition could have told him for sure that this would happen. 

There is a long way to go, and an uncertain path before the galaxy, but the stars continue to burn above their heads, and the Force continues to just be, and they have  _ this _ , this one certainty amongst a universe of chaos.


End file.
